


Scribbled in the Dark

by fefedove



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Depression, M/M, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-21
Updated: 2016-04-21
Packaged: 2018-06-03 14:11:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6613699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fefedove/pseuds/fefedove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sehun is the Angel of Death and Zitao falls asleep in his arms.<br/>It's a sickness, an addiction, an overdose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scribbled in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted on AFF and first time posting on ao3, so i'm not really sure how this works...  
> this fic includes many references and quotes, which will be explained in the end notes

> **Summer is a hot mess; a sickness.**

 

Zitao is sixteen.

It’s hot.

 

The window’s open and crickets join the whirring of the fan in a chorus of monotony. The fan doesn’t do much- just pushes around the stale air. It’s kind of like Zitao- he doesn’t do much, just pushes things away from him- people, problems, responsibilities, life. They don’t go anywhere, just ends up somewhere farther along the road, builds up on the other end and it gets harder.

Like shoveling. Imagine a driveway covered with a nice thick layer of fresh snow. Stand at one end, put the shovel down and walk. You create a little path and some spill to the sides, but eventually there’s too much snow against the shovel and you’re stuck. Too much pushing back and it gets heavy.

That’s where Zitao is now- stuck- but he doesn’t know why he’s thinking about snow. It must be the stifling weather and absence of air conditioning. He’s drowning in sweat and the razor is cool against his skin. The pain is nice. It cuts through the humidity, but the blood adds to the stickiness. How annoying.

The razor lands on the dresser with a muffled clang and Zitao lies down. He stares up at the ceiling fan as it spins uselessly and wonders what it’ll be like if he hangs from it. What if he dismembers himself and hangs an arm on one propeller, a foot on another? It would be a welcoming sight to walk in on. Probably.

He closes his eyes, feeling the sweat trickle down from his hairline. The salt burns on his wrist.

 

_Remember us - if at all - not as lost_

_Violent souls, but only_

_As the hollow men_

_The stuffed men._

 

The crickets really should shut up.

 

~ ~ ~

 

The bathroom floor is cool against his cheek and he probably has tiled imprints by now.

School means transforming into a punching bag. They use him for their competitions of masculinity, but it’s funny because he likes the pain. He realized that during his first beating because while others break down, he thrives. He grows towards the sun and the sun burns white hot; his roots spread in the shadows and take hold.

It fascinates him.

It makes him feel alive.

 

_In vain produced, all rays return;_

_Evil will bless, and ice will burn._

 

Sometimes, he wants to stop but he can’t. It’s a never-ending cycle. People call him a freak when he’s sitting in class. The words replay in his mind and the blades of the A’s and tips of the I’s slash against his wrists. They scar, people sneer and he’s doubled over behind a trash can (where he belongs).

 

Zitao likes pain.

It reminds him that he exists.

  
  


 

> **Autumn is falling; an addiction.**

 

Zitao is twenty.

He still likes pain and he loves Sehun.

 

They met at a party and Zitao fell hard.

They paint with black ink, splattered on walls; fifty shades of manipulation and love.

Sehun burns white hot and Zitao is the candlewick, struggling to keep the dazzling glory alight. They complement each other, they need each other. He absorbs all of Sehun’s anger- pounded into him with every punch, pressed into him with every hungry kiss, thrusted into him through every entrance. It’s placed into him with those long slim fingers, spreading him wide and filling him with heat. He breathes it in, lets out the bad blood and it forms the red string of fate. It mixes with the white on the palette of their bodies, leaving sticky pink roses all over him. Little bouquets of lips, fingerprints, scratches, bruises. They decorate his body, too late for Valentine’s Day, too early for his funeral.

He loves everything about Sehun and the feeling doesn’t waver, even in the dark- especially in the dark- lying amidst shattered china, pain flowering in the back of his mind.

Sometimes, fear and love mix and swirl and he can’t really tell the difference.

 

Like fire: is it warming or is it burning?

Like life: are you alive or are you dying?

Are you falling in love or is this your downfall?

 

_Tie me up and tell me._

_You’re tormenting and mesmerizing._

 

~ ~ ~

 

 _I love you,_ Sehun says some day late at night or early in the morning, that grayness when anything is possible. There's truth in his voice, heavy like the alcohol in his breath; it makes Zitao's world spin _._ _I love you so much. I know what you need._

Need is subjective.

Zitao needs Sehun.

 

~ ~ ~

 

_I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. Promise. Don’t be angry. Forgive me. Love me. Please._

He’s on the ground.

_I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry sorry sorry._

He chants it like a mantra and it’s a monologue because Sehun has fallen asleep (passed out- he doesn’t care). Zitao’s still awake, alone-

 

_At the hour when we are_

_Trembling with tenderness_

_Lips that would kiss_

_Form prayers to broken stone._

 

He crawls over and nudges away the empty bottles. He brings those fingers to his lips and presses gently. The most beautiful things in the world are the deadliest, it seems.

Contre qui, Rose? Against whom have you assumed these thorns?

But it’s not really like that. He likes thinking up excuses for them both.

He carves Sehun’s name in his thigh and the blood bubbles and smears and crusts.

He’s so dirty, ragged, worthless and loving Sehun is his only redemption.

 

~ ~ ~

 

They’ve been through so much, Sehun and Zitao. Walking in the park, under the sun, gravel crunching, hand in hand.The memories created in this room are asphyxiating, exciting. Sehun saved him from the darkness and brought him here, where the darkness is protective, a refuge, wrapping around him and never letting go.

Numbing. Cracks of clarity.

 _I’ll protect you,_ he said, he says.

 _Huang Zitao._  The name sounds like a dream. Drunken, potent. Zitao is a pile of limbs, all flesh, and Sehun picks it apart, picks it clean.

 

_Love, love, love_

paints Zitao in red, so pretty in red. Sehun is barechested, white, pure with an inebriated haze.

 

_You’re my earth, air, water, fire._

_Everything, everything,_

_Like a dream._

 

_I saw you in my dream,_

_smile as sweet as honey._

 

It’s early morning and the bed reeks of sweat and alcohol. A fly buzzes around his head and Zitao catches it, squashes it in the heart of his palm, picks apart the wings. They’re translucent, catching the light. A weak sunshine filters through, softening Sehun’s edges. Zitao lets go of the wings. They flutter to the mattress as he caresses Sehun’s beautiful face.

He looks like an angel.

 

_Your sweet poison, my only cure._

_Is this heaven, or is this hell?_

 

 

 

> **Winter is the climax; an overdose.**

 

Zitao’s life is a tragedy, but he’s not the hero. His entire existence is a hamartia; his tragic fall is being dragged into Sehun’s lap. Fingers ensnare in his hair, crescent moons against his skin.

Moons, stars, galaxies, fallen angels.

 

_Their lips the secret kept,_

_If in ashes the fire-seed slept._

_But, now and then, truth-speaking things_

_Shamed the angels' veiling wings._

 

It’s crazy, guilty pleasure. It’s ecstasy, intoxicating, everything.

 

_I want to fill my throat with you_

_Tremors through my entire body_

_Poison spreading from head to toe_

 

_I don’t care; I savor this._

_I can’t stop; I can’t resist._

 

_Sehun . . . Sehun . . ._

 

His heart bleeds down his bare chest, pools around his thighs. Sehun’s sitting on the bed, straddling, looking down at him. Zitao can see the little half-smile and he wants to kiss it, make it his. Press his dirty mouth against that sinful smile. Maybe he can mimic the curve of the lips- carve it into his face with Sehun's tongue like a jack-o-lantern, a ghoul- but it’s burning him and he’s drowning in fire.

There are fingers in his hair, tugging, tearing them out.

There are stars in the darkness and he feels Sehun panting- each breath a whip falling on his back.

 

_It hurts . . . It hurts . . ._

 

But he likes it, doesn’t he? He likes it this way. He’s a freak, a beautiful freak, and Sehun is destruction in all its glory. He’s an angel, carved from marble, stone and metal daggers.

Dragged across the floor, Zitao sees his own reflection. It doesn’t look like him- crying, ghastly, dead. He wants to scratch at it and rip it to shreds. Scatter this abomination on the floor to join the other worthless trash. Hang from the chandelier, the single swaying lightbulb.

But there’s music in his mind, Sehun’s singing in his ear.

 

_His love is the only law_

_Those lips, kisses, fatal._

  
~ ~ ~

 

It’s cold.

 

Zitao curls into himself, feeling Sehun's breaths at his nape. There are arms around his waist, holding him, embracing and trapping. A light squeeze and his ribs shatter, piercing his heart.

_Go to sleep._

Something wet trickles down his face. Maybe it's sweat, maybe it's tears, maybe it's life.

Maybe it's a goodbye.

_'Till death do us apart._

 

Zitao remembers the fan from all those years ago- useless thing that was so like him. He’s still the same person, a little more ruined, maybe. Now, it’s a broken heater, sitting in the corner of Sehun's apartment. Something’s always broken in life- he’s always broken.

He can’t feel his toes, or his limbs, or his head. They’re black and blue, frostbite and teeth marks. Jagged edges poking through like a chicken bone snapped in half, or a twig.

The heater’s broken, but there’s still Sehun, radiating warmth and pain.

But pain doesn’t make Zitao feel anymore and blood tastes so acrid. It attracts flies like he’s already rotting inside. He’s too old now. Or maybe it’s dependency. Or was it tolerance? Something else, probably.

He’s so numb, a sack of dead weight being dragged through the sewers like feces in an attempt to save his life; run from death, but he keeps finding himself going back. He splatters Sehun with his filthiness, sullies the angel’s wings. His own are torn from his back, but he's not an angel. He's the devil; Sehun, the devil in disguise.

 

He feels sluggish and tired, but-

_Sehun, don’t let me fade away._

 

Things are different when it’s cold. There’s another reason behind the lethargy- he’s lazy and dying, blood dripping like usual. He likes to pick at the scars and scabs. Look at the raw, pink skin. Look at it try to protect itself. Look at it bleed onto the fresh white snow; create rosy icicles and stab it through its heart.

Killed in cold blood.

Dead in a puddle.

 

_Sehun, Sehun, don’t let me go._

 

The Angel of Death visits tonight; there is blood everywhere, but not on the door.

The Angel of Death visits tonight; Zitao falls asleep in his arms.

 

~ ~ ~

 

Zitao’s life is a tragedy; there are no flowers at his funeral. The same people continue to trample his corpse; there is no body in the casket.

 

The candlewick is gone- a supernova, then smoke.

There’s nothing left of Zitao and Sehun, this perverse love that thrived in the shadows of hell.

So sad, but no one cries (nobody cares).

 

_This is the way the world ends_

_This is the way the world ends_

_This is the way the world ends_

_Not with a bang but with a whimper._

 

Summer is a hot mess; a sickness.

Autumn is falling; an addiction.

Winter is the climax; an overdose.

Spring doesn’t happen; it will never happen.

 

_Too much, it’s you_

_Your love, it’s an_

_Overdose._

 

* * *

 

 

_ [explanation here](http://fefedove.tumblr.com/post/116864944185/self-destruction-explanation) _

**Author's Note:**

> Overdose  
> (I took some liberties while translating though)
> 
> \- the foreword  
> \- It's a sickness, an addiction, an overdose  
> \- Tie me up and tell me / You’re tormenting and mesmerizing.  
> \- Your sweet poison, my only cure.  
> \- I want to fill my throat with you / Tremors through my entire body / Poison spreading from head to toe  
> \- I savor this   
> \- His love is the only law / Those lips, kisses, fatal.  
> \- Too much, it’s you / Your love, it’s an / Overdose.
> 
> The Hollow Men (T.S. Elliot)  
> \- Remember us - if at all - not as lost / Violent souls, but only / As the hollow men / The stuffed men.  
> \- At the hour when we are / Trembling with tenderness / Lips that would kiss / Form prayers to broken stone.  
> \- This is the way the world ends / This is the way the world ends / This is the way the world ends / Not with a bang but with a whimper.
> 
> Uriel (Ralph Waldo Emerson)  
> \- Uriel is a fallen angel  
> \- In vain produced, all rays return; / Evil will bless, and ice will burn.  
> \- Their lips the secret kept, / If in ashes the fire-seed slept. / But, now and then, truth-speaking things / Shamed the angels' veiling wings.
> 
> Contre Qui, Rose  
> \- It's a French poem and song  
> \- Zitao wants to think that Sehun was violent and angry because he had to protect himself (the thorns)
> 
> Love, Love, Love  
> \- You’re my earth, air, water, fire.
> 
> Tian Mi Mi  
> \- I saw you in my dream,  
> \- smile as sweet as honey.
> 
> The Handmaid's Tale (Margaret Atwood) - references  
> \- All Flesh - that was a meat store in the book, but I'm pretty sure it's also a religious allusion
> 
> Les Miserables (Victor Hugo)  
> \- He’s so numb, a sack of deadweight being dragged through the sewers like feces in an attempt to save his life - Jean Valjean carried the unconcsious Marius through the sewers after the barricade 
> 
> The angel of death  
> \- The Angel of Death visits tonight; there is blood everywhere, but not on the door - In the Bible where the Israelites put blood on their door but the Egyptians didn't, so their sons got killed by the Angel.  
> \- It's also name for a drug (hence all the other drug references)
> 
> Galaxies  
> \- Moons, stars, galaxies, fallen angels - I write about galaxies a lot thanks to a certain galaxy hyung.


End file.
